


As Custom Commands

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [331]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU Where the Jedi Are a Thing, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Bodyguard!Anakin, But A Different Kind of Thing, Denial of Feelings, King!Obi-Wan, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: They send him a boy.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Series: Mental Mimosa [331]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1012767
Comments: 12
Kudos: 208





	As Custom Commands

They send him a boy.

The first time in a century that the Royal House of Coruscant had asked for the Jedis’ help in any bloody capacity and the Council had sent him a _boy_!

“No,” the king said abruptly. He stood, the midnight folds of his robe fluttering. “You won’t do at all, I’m afraid. I very specifically asked for a Jedi capable of protecting my life, not a...a...a youngling.”

“I am no youngling, Your Highness. My name is Anakin Skywalker and I am a Jedi Knight.” 

“You, a knight? Have the Jedis’ ranks really grown so thin that they would hand that title out so freely?” 

_Or is of me they think so little?_ he thought but did not say. _Perhaps you are the best they think I deserve_.

The knight inclined his head. “The Jedi are honored by your request, Highness, and value your trust. That is why they chose to send me. I am among the newer knights, it’s true, but I’ve been padawan to Master Qui-Gon Jinn for 15 years and trained in combat by Master Yoda himself.” His eyes met the king’s directly, a bright, insolent challenge. “They trust me, Your Highness. Given the threats you have faced of late, perhaps you should, too.”

“You,” the king said, still caught in that gaze, still very irritated, “are very fortunate that we are alone. Had you spoken to me that way in front of my court, I’d have you tied to the stocks by now, Jedi.”

That got him a smile, of all things, a small tear in the knight’s smooth veneer that made the anger in his own body flare, a feeling that spiked when the Jedi stepped towards him, a hand’s width too close. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, sir,” Skywalker said coolly, “I think not. Now, would you care to show me the messages that you wrote my masters about?”

 _No_ , the king thought, glaring up into the Jedi’s face. _I want you to leave_.

But that was only the impractical side of him speaking; the man, as it were, and not the king. And Obi-Wan Kenobi had not been raised at the hand of a king, had not married and lost a queen, had not lived nearly half of his natural life as a monarch to have the Royal House of Coruscant brought down by his own stubbornness. What was best for the House mattered; what was best for him--booting the boy back to the Council with a bug in his ear, for example--did not. The House required a king who could rule without fear and he’d be damned if some fool with a quill and an overabundance of vitriol would make him tremble ever again.

He needed this Jedi, whether he liked it or not.

So he swallowed his anger and did his best to set aside the fiercest of his pride and said, in the cool, smooth voice his Councillors envied: “Thank you, Ser Knight. I would welcome your counsel.”

The Jedi smiled. “And I am here to freely give it, Your Highness, when and where you require it.”

 _Somehow_ , the king thought dourly as he led the knight to his study, to the dreaded metal box wherein the objects of his terror lay, _I suspect you’ll not wait for me to ask.  
  
_

__________

  
  
There were three notes in the box, each inscribed in the same even, neat hand. Skywalker drew them out in succession and studied them, frowning, as the king described their lineage.

“The first was pinned to the outer door just after the start of the year. The Captain of the Watch discovered it and brought it straight to me.”

“Why to you and not your Master at Arms?”

“Because my symbol was forged on the front, see? There. And it’s tradition for the people to communicate with the sovereign thus from time to time; by letter, that is, so inscribed and posted on the castle door. So the captain thought nothing of it, and neither did I. It was only later, when I opened it at my leisure, that I became...alarmed.”

Skywalker looked at him, brows crowning above the edge of the paper. “Ah. You don’t care to read about yourself being disemboweled, your Highness?”

The king shivered; the reaction made him feel foolish. “No, knight. I do not.”

“And the second? Delivered the same way?”

“Much of this was in my communique to the Council. Is it really necessary for me to repeat it?”

“Yes,” Skywalker said firmly. “So, the second?”

“I found on the seat of my throne two months later. I knew the hand at once.”

“But you opened it anyway?”

The king rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“And I’m guessing it’s not Coruscant tradition to let just anyone into the Great Hall, is it?"

“No,” the king said. “But for someone determined, such entry wouldn’t be impossible. Or would not have been then. The guard has grown more watchful since then.”

Skywalker unfolded the last letter; the smallest of the three, and the fiercest. “And the third? Where was it found?”

“In my bedchambers, last week. Tucked neatly within my bed linens.” He tried to smile. He failed, remembering the dead weight of that fine, folded paper in my hand. “And no, before you ask, it is not common for any uninvited visitors to dwell there.”

 _Here, while you sleep_ , the letter said--watching Skywalker read it, the king could not help but remember the fetid words. _I shall slit your throat enough to make you bleed and then take my time with you, Obi-Wan; oh, the pleasures I shall find in you before I permit your death. You shall be exquisite in your last hours, my dear._

“Obi-Wan,” Skywalker said, his voice drawing the king from his terrible reverie. “Is that your private name?”

“It is.” 

The Jedi dropped his head, a formal, ancient gesture. “Have I offended you by speaking it, Highness?”

The question felt like a small kindness. “No, knight. Though I would ask that you not repeat it.”

Skywalker’s eyes came to rest in his; now, there was sympathy there. “I wouldn’t dare. May I ask another, perhaps indelicate question?”

“You may.”

“This last letter suggests an intimate familiarity with your private rooms. Are they any in your court who’d possess such a knowledge and also the ability to gain unseen access?”

He had been warned, and still the query stung; there were some matters, the king thought grimly, that should remain private, even for a sovereign. But Skywalker was not asking out of base curiosity, was he? It was the nature of the threat the king faced. And he knew that the Jedi would not break his confidence; such discretion was part of their Code. Whatever he told the knight would not leave this room.

“There is no one,” the king said quietly. “There has not been since the queen died.”

“Do you know if there are any who wished to be? Any whose affections you’ve rejected of late?”

“If any offers have been made, I’ve been unaware of them.”

“I see.” The knight brushed his dark curls away from his face. He looked thoughtful. “Is anyone in your House aware that these letters exist?”

“Captain Cody knows of the first, of course,” the king said, on steadier ground now. “But I have made no one aware of the others.”

“May I ask why?”

The king sighed. “Because their placement suggests intimacy, as you said. An intimacy I cannot trace. To be plain about it, Jedi, I did not know who I could trust. To ask for outside assistance seemed wiser.”

“Yes, Your Highness. It was.” Skywalker set the odious notes back in the box and the king hurried to seal it. The knight waited until the box was closed, and then asked: “What explanation have you given as to why I am here?”

“It’s not terribly creative, I’m afraid.”

The knight chuckled. “Simple is often best, yes? Or so my masters have always claimed, and gods forbid the world beyond the temple walls contradict that.”

“You’re here as a goodwill gesture,” the king said, “a kind of temporary gift from the Council. A sign of the ever-forged alliance between the Jedi and Coruscant.”

“Hmm. When’s the last time your House hosted a Jedi?”

The king blushed. He was sure the knight already knew the answer, probably down to the hour and day. “Not since my predecessor's father reigned, I’m afraid.”

Skywalker smiled broadly, a great, white-toothed affair. “Then you have much missed hospitality to make up for, do you not? So no one will question the length of my stay. Nor will they question--” His voice stopped and his expression narrowed; he looked, the king thought, for all intents and purposes like a tall, lanky fox. “Your Highness.”

“Yes?”

“In the old ways, was it not a custom of a king to give a visiting Jedi his bed?”

The king blinked. And blinked again. “Er, ah--so it was.”

The Jedi took a step around the king’s desk and came to stand in front of him. Stars, he was tall. “May I suggest, then, that for the sake of your safety, Your Highness, you do as custom commands?”

“You want me to give you my bed?” the king said, stupidly. Gods, the situation, he realized, the whole damnable mess of it, was rapidly spinning out of his control. “Where shall I sleep, then? In the rushes? Perhaps out in the hall with the servants? Not bloody likely.”

Skywalker threw back his head and laughed. “No need to look so insulted, Highness. You’ll sleep here with me. That way I can keep an eye on you and ensure your awful admirer doesn’t make another pass.”

“But won’t”--here the king cleared his throat, because these topics were not ones he’d ever borne easily--“I mean, some may make assumptions about, er--so few in my court remember the old ways.”

The Jedi shrugged. “Some may presume that we’re lovers. Does that bother you?”

“No,” the king lied, and oh, very badly. “Not at all.”

“We need not confirm or deny such talk if its arises. Sometimes ambiguity’s for the best; beings tend to talk more about what they don’t actually know. And spreading the word that there’s a Jedi at your side, even in the depths of the night, might be all the deterrence this coward needs.”

He was right, damn him. Even the king could see it, try as he might to resist. Simply thinking about the notion of this beautiful, clever creature and his laser sword anywhere near his bed--much less in it--made the king’s stomach turn in a terribly pleasant way, which was embarrassing, frankly, because for all his height and apparent deviousness, the Jedi was closer to his youth than the king had been in a very, very long time.

The gods were testing him, he decided. First inserting terror into his life and now this: Anakin Skywalker, Jedi Knight and soon-to-be nightly co-occupant of the king’s feather bed. The king had been unhappy, bored with his life, and they knew it; he’d been complacent, and they’d send him the materials for his fall: death and/or rank humiliation when the Grand Hall started buzzing about the king and his warrior boy. 

He looked at Skywalker then, really stared at him, and what he saw again was the Jedi was managing to look both faintly amused and absolutely resolute.

Well, the king thought in a sunburst, fuck the gossips. Fuck the letter-writing bastard who was trying to ruin his life. If whispers and raised eyebrows were all he had to bear to gain Skywalker’s protection and not lose his damnable life, then so be it.

“Very well,” he said with a nod. “Ring the bell there and call the steward. He’ll have your things moved from your quarters and placed in mine instead.”

The Jedi’s mouth curved and he touched the king’s arm for the moment, sweet and strangely, ever so gentle. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said. “After reading those letters, I’ll rest much more easily when we’re in close proximity.”

Oh dear, the king thought. Oh dear. That flip in his stomach was back.

“As will I, Skywalker,” he said, surprised to learn that he meant it. “Thank you.”

“If I may be so bold?”

“Oh, well. Why in the world should you stop now?”

A grin. “If we are to be bedmates for some while, I’d much prefer if you called me Anakin.”

“As you wish, Anakin.” He let his own lips lift. “But I must insist that you not waver in addressing me as king.”

__________

To say that the Jedi quickly cut a figure of fascination at court was, in the king’s estimation, to state the matter far too mildly.

That first night, the court did a passable job of not staring, of cooling acknowledging the exotic stranger in their presence and then setting back to their cups. But when Skywalker lingered, when the king made it known that the House would be hosting him for the foreseeable future, the cracks in the court’s manners were rapid and deep.

Much of this was Skywalker’s own fault, for he was a man of no small beauty and, despite his Jedi upbringing, a multiplicity of charms. The king had always understood the Jedi to be dour in their countenance, but despite his penchant for wearing black, the Jedi was a living light; no one seemed able could resist his handsome face, his teasing eyes, or his startling, easy laugh.

He caught his scrivener, Padme, a young, serious girl who suffered no fools, blushing when the knight said good morning to her as she passed them in the corridor. _Blushing_. Padme! Huh.

He saw the eyes of his Master at Arms, Maul, linger on Skywalker’s body as the two amused themselves with a dual in the courtyard, much of the guard gathered around cheering to watch--and in no fighting style with which the king was familiar was the place at which Maul stared considered a sporting place to strike.

Even the Ambassador from Alderaan--a large, pompous man of whom the king was not overly fond--seemed utterly delighted by Skywalker’s presence. They spent a whole feast night huddled by one of the hearths, talking, neither sparing a glance anyone else’s way.

Soon, it seemed impossible to imagine life at court as it had been without Anakin, despite the strangeness of having the man in his bed.  
  
As a bed-mate, Skywalker had much to recommend him. He did not snore, which the king counted a great relief; however, the knight slept without his shirt, which was not. He was fastidious in his privacy and allowed the king his; most nights, he waited until the king had settled himself beneath the covers and snuffed the candle before he even entered the room.

“Highness,” he’d say. “Good evening.”

“And to you.” The king would not squint into the dark, he would not, as the shadows Skywalker wore gave way to flesh. “I, ah--I trust you had a pleasant day.”

The bed would sigh as Skywalker sat upon it, its wistful tone not unlike the king’s own. “Mmm,” he said one night, a fortnight into his visit. “I had a very through tour of your stables after supper from Ahsoka. You have some beautiful ships out there.” One boot hit the floor. “It’s a shame nobody can fly them but her.”

“I can fly them,” the king huffed. “I just choose not to.”

There was a second soft thud and the sheets shifted as Skywalker slipped beneath them. “Why?”

The king set his jaw and did not tell the truth. “Because Ahsoka is a far better pilot than I and I’ve entrusted the ships to her care. She’s devoted to them--surely that was apparent. She’d be furious with me if I brought one back with so much as a scratch.”

Anakin chuckled. “Well, that I believe. She wasn’t too keen on me even looking too closely, I think.”

Looking too closely was precisely what the king was doing; he found himself staring at the curve of Anakin's shoulders, the way the sheets had already fallen from his shoulders, the tangle of hair at his neck.

“Would you prefer that I not go out there again?” 

There was a note of acquiescence in Skywalker’s voice, and the king realized his silence had been misread as displeasure. And so he said, lightly: “It’s Ahsoka’s permission you should be seeking, not mine.”

“Mmm,” Anakin said. He yawned and burrowed his head into the pillow. “I think you’re right.”

On other nights, though, when Skywalker came to his chamber, every word that fell from the king’s mouth was churlish; he couldn't help it. Just being in the presence of the knight made him so.

“I didn’t care for your behavior at the reception this evening,” he said one evening as Skywalker stepped through the doors of his chambers, late.

The knight’s voice was mild, the turn of the lock a soft snikt. “Did I do something that offended you, Highness?”

“Me? Oh no no. Not me. A word was put to me by a guest.”

“I see. What was their complaint?”

 _Ah_ , the king thought. _Good question. Er_ \--

“This particular person was unsettled by the way in which you conducted yourself.”

The knight reached for the high catch of his cloak, his long fingers pale against the silken black. He also looked amused, which did not help. “That’s a pretty general complaint, don’t you think?”

“What I think,” the king said, even more irritated now, because the firelight was doing lovely things to Anakin's face, “is that our visitor was alarmed that you spent so much of your evening socializing rather than doing your duty.”

“Ah. And which duty would that be?”

“Watching over me.”

“Oh,” Skywalker said with a grin. “Is that all?”


End file.
